Chapter 11 - The Name On Page Forty-Two
The harsh red and blue strobe lights of the state police cruisers cast frantic, flickering shadows across the charred timbers of the abandoned mill. The air smelled heavily of burnt gunpowder, ozone, and spilled blood. Jax leaned heavily against the side of the rusted dump truck, his left shoulder wrapped in a thick, blood-soaked field bandage applied by a paramedic who was now hastily tending to his wound.
A few feet away, Marcus Vance sat handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser, his face a mask of bitter, silent fury as he stared blankly through the reinforced glass window.
State Trooper Sergeant Miller stood under the buzzing light of a portable floodlamp, holding the weathered leather ledger open to page forty-two. His rugged, weathered face tightened as his eyes scanned the crisp, typed wire-transfer codes and signatures at the bottom of the page. He slowly raised his gaze, locking eyes with Jax through the swirling dust and smoke.
“Explain this, Jax,” Sergeant Miller demanded, his voice dropping into a hard, suspicious register. “You said Marcus was just a middleman. But this authorization signature… it’s not a corporate alias. It’s a local badge.”
Leo stood beside Jax, clutching the hem of the biker’s uninjured side, his big hazel eyes darting nervously between the stern police sergeant and the bloody bandages.
Jax let out a long, painful breath, wincing as the paramedic tied off the gauze.
“Look at the precinct stamp in the bottom right corner, Miller,” Jax rasped, his voice rough and exhausted. “Eight years ago, when the fire happened, who was the lead detective assigned to the Sturgis precinct? Who quietly closed the investigation two days later claiming it was an accidental electrical fault caused by a bad fuse?”
Miller’s breath caught in his throat. The color drained entirely from the sergeant’s sun-browned face.
“Captain Thomas,” Miller whispered, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. “Chief of our own district.”
“He didn’t just close the case,” Jax continued, gripping the edge of the truck bed to steady himself. “He orchestrated the whole damn thing from a desk downtown. Marcus was just the cleaner who moved the money offshore. Thomas is the one who ordered the hit on Bobby when Bobby tried to back out and raise his kid straight.”
Miller stared down at the ledger, his hands trembling slightly as the full, devastating scope of the corruption within his own department finally settled over him.
“If Thomas knows we intercepted Marcus tonight,” Miller said grimly, reaching instinctively for his radio mic, “he’ll know we’re coming for him. And right now, he has full jurisdiction over the county jail where Marcus is headed.”
Before Miller could click the radio transmit button, a loud, ear-piercing screech of tires echoed from the highway entrance above the mill yard.
A heavy, unmarked black transport van came tearing down the dirt slope at breakneck speed, its high-beam headlights blinding the state troopers standing near the cruisers.
Sergeant Miller drew his service pistol instantly, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Hold your fire! Identify yourself!”
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The van didn’t slow down. Instead, it smashed directly through the side barrier of the parking lot, careening straight toward the police cruiser holding Marcus Vance.
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